


faith

by orphan_account



Series: beyond reason [3]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Ch. 17 Spoilers, Game-Level Violence, Gen, Golden Deer Route, Pre-Relationship, Spoiler Character Death, developing feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-09-01 12:24:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20258062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: the last skirmish on that goddess-forsaken field was one of celebration, of testing one’s mettle, of no bloodshed.not this time.





	faith

**Author's Note:**

> so this is apparently becoming a long-winded series and I am so sorry about that. oh well! please enjoy and let me know what you think!!

Nobody knew what to expect.

Despite spring’s creeping warmth with the coming of the Great Tree Moon, a chill hung heavy with the lingering fog, spreading goosebumps along Linhardt’s back. He huddled over the makeshift table, watching Claude shift game board pieces across a wrinkled map to simulate a multitude of possibilities for tomorrow. If the fog remained, the battle would prove even more arduous. But if it vanished, it would provide sharp visibility and allow the archers to be more effective. However, that also helped their enemy. Or _enemies,_ depending on the phantom army lurking about bearing the old Faerghus coat of arms. 

“We just don’t know,” Claude resigned, combing his fingers through his unruly hair. He shook his head. “There’s just too many what-ifs to plan strategically for this one. Edelgard might show up, she might not. That other army may surprise us, and it may not even come.” He threw his hands up in the air. “The only thing I _can_ guarantee is that _we’re_ here.”

“What wonderful insight,” Linhardt deadpanned. 

“Alright, Mr. Tactician, what’s _your_ brilliant deductions tell you?”

He paused, eyes shifting from piece to piece on the table, before nodding. “That it’s dinnertime,” he concluded, rising from his tree stump.

Claude slow-clapped. “Wow. Yeah. You’re right, compared to your thoughts, my deductions look as amazing as a fresh-caught Fódlandy.”

Although he hardly enjoyed admitting it, Linhardt still had some inklings of pride in him in regards to his intellect. Even Edelgard used to hold his strategizing in high respect. Claude threw out some bait and, with a scowl, Linhardt knew he’d bite. He stretched, frowned, and rolled his eyes. “_Fine,_ don’t give me that look. Here.” 

He gathered up all the game pieces, then placed them down one by one as he spoke. “If it’s foggy, put our calvary - I suggest Leonie to lead it - on the front lines to light up the field. Give them torches to guide our eyes. If it’s not, put our infantry first, followed by our archers, _then_ our calvary. Marianne and yourself will be on opposite sides either way to gain most ground to assess what we’re up against. Since the Empire,” he pointed to the map, “is coming from this direction with a specialization in magic, we’ll put her here as she is strong against magic-users. You can scout the _other_ half of the field, assuming anything will _be_ there, and if there isn’t, then you can easily swoop back to the other side for back-up. If there _is,_ then Lysithea and I will supply you with back-up forces with our magic. Afterward, we will clear the eastern side of the field from any surprise attacks. Is that sufficient as a start?”

Claude’s jaw hung open for a couple of moments before his easygoing grin resurfaced. “It’s a start. How’d you come up with that in a few seconds?”

“It wasn’t in a few seconds. It was from hours of watching you play musical chairs with those stupid game pieces you have. That’s the best strategy _you_ came up with, but it seems you’d already forgotten.” 

“Y’know, you’re a lot smarter and pay more attention than I gave you credit for, Linny.” Claude rubbed his chin. “Maybe our good ol’ golden schemes are finally rubbin’ off onto you.”

“I highly doubt that. But you can pay me your respects by never calling me ‘Linny’ ever again. Good luck with the rest of it.”

He stepped away from the table and crossed the camp, boots squishing against puddles and mud. Hushed mutterings plagued with anxieties reached his ears as he strode toward the dinner line. Nothing quite like a pleasant bowl of gruel as a possible last meal. The soldiers accepted it regardless, gulping their food down to recover from their long trek. 

He may see many of them face-first on the field tomorrow.

Bowl in hand, he ignored the bitter taste while sucking the gruel down. Its texture alone almost made him lose his appetite. 

“Hey.” Caspar patted his shoulder before sitting down across from him. His eyes glittered with promises of enacting justice with his fists, a peculiar jitter that another man named Felix appeared to share with him. “How was the strategy meeting?”

“Exhausting. I don’t know why they had _me_ help with it.” He sighed. “Then again, seeing their other options being Hilda and Lorenz with Professor being busy with other preparations? I’m not all that surprised.”

“I don’t need a meeting to know it’s gonna be brutal.” He rolled his shoulder, gaze shifting towards the foggy expanse, then lowered his voice. “Think we’re gonna see them? Petra, Hubert. Bernie?” 

Memories from the classroom came to mind: Bernadetta ducking beneath her textbook, Hubert cracking a humorless joke as he sipped a cup of coffee, Petra holding up a colorful feather and trying to explain its cultural significance to her homeland. Softer days. Now the chances of running into them on less than pleasant circumstances rose to disappointingly astronomical. Ferdinand would not be among them; he perished during the battle on the bridge from Claude’s arrow barrage. The sight of it - him falling off his horse, orange hair sullied by the blood - never quite left his thoughts. He set his empty bowl down.

“I hope not.” His attachments to his former classmates varied, but he knew all of them possessed great skill from beneath Edelgard’s tutelage and Manuela’s teachings. Running into any of them - Petra especially, her raw talent in blades unmatched by her peers - would prove disastrous. 

“Maybe we can convince them to join us. You know, ditch the Empire, help us bring peace back to Fódlan. I’m sure at least _Bernie_ would give us a chance?” Caspar swallowed hard, uncertainty crossing his face. “I don’t think I’d be able to, you know. Hurt her. I just _can’t,_ Linny. We ate lunch together! Trained together! Heck, I even coaxed her out of her room once with sweets for a lecture. I think _that’s_ pretty impressive. That all has to mean something, right?”

He knew. He saw it all between naps and bouts of fishing in the little pond close to the greenhouse. Caspar radiated an energy around him allowing for easy friendships, which now acted as a double-edged sword. “You better hope that if you _do_ cross paths, she holds those memories in as high regard as you do. Please don’t make me exude too much effort to save your life again this time, alright?” 

A myriad of furious arguments flashed in Caspar’s eyes, bottom lip quivering as each counterpoint - _Bernie would _never_ hurt me, you can’t convince me otherwise, just because Ferdinand was too proud doesn’t mean -_ melded down to one utterance behind gritted teeth: “Fine.” The unspoken _I’ll prove you wrong_ hung heavy between them, and Linhardt simply nodded. He hoped, for once, Caspar would.

“It’s late,” he said, offering a route for escape from the conversation.

“Yeah.” Caspar gave a curt nod, gratefully accepting the offer. His leg bounced. “Don’t think I’ll be able to sleep though. Heh, kinda like the last time we were here, you know? The Battle of the Eagle and Lion. I was so excited I couldn’t get a wink. And now, I…” What remained of his enthusiasm for fighting appeared extinguished with a cold bucket of reality. He shook his head. “I’m gonna go see if Ingrid wants to train with me. Catch you later, Linhardt.”

“Later.”

Alone, at last. Linhardt tilted his head and squinted. Not one star in the sky winked back at him - only darkness. The Great Tree Moon bore the most interesting constellations in his opinion, and it was a shame he wouldn’t be able to look at them for possibly the last time. He rubbed his hands together, blew warm air between them, and looked to his feet instead. Caspar held great fondness for those they might have to kill, but Linhardt - he tried to feel something, _anything,_ for them. But those feelings, stuffed beneath layers upon layers of indifference, refused to come out.

If their enemies lived or died - regardless of how well he knew them - he didn’t seem to care, and that _horrified_ him. Much like the blood he used to flinch away from, it affected him little now. From his perspective, he could either cry about it or move on with his life, and something about how his own mind picked “move on” undeterred unsettled him. His detachment from the situation rendered him unable to be bothered about tomorrow like everyone else in the camp. He should lose sleep over it. Exposure to war warped him, and for a fleeting moment in his youth, he thought he was above all that. 

He wasn’t.

Maybe something _was_ wrong with him. And if there was, he should feel more than “oh well” about it. Did he care about _anyone?_ A foolish question - of course he cared, yes, but how much? All his comrades had a strong chance of perishing tomorrow, and all he could think about was how disappointed he felt over not seeing some stupid stars. And his own life - did he care about that at all? Or just how unfortunate it would be if his Crest research went unfinished?

He was entering “tired enough to think too much” territory, indicative of the much-beloved “bedtime.” Such pondering only made him exhausted. He lifted his head -

“_Gah!_”

\- and jerked back, eyes widening at the person sitting in front of him. _Byleth._ The man appeared from nowhere, looking at a smaller map. His eyebrow lifted in a silent, _What?_

“I didn’t see you there,” Linhardt explained, willing his heart to calm down. All his life, his ears trained in on quieter sounds of telltale movement, but Byleth somehow surpassed all of that and walked the earth like a ghost banished from the heavens. 

His shock rescinded into concern. Dark circles laid claim to Byleth’s eyelids, and he chewed his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. Linhardt documented it all: the way Byleth’s gloved fingertips traced the map over and over in different patterns, the hardened furrow in his brow, the slump in his shoulders. Reading him took time and effort, something Linhardt disliked immensely, but it felt satisfying to do now. This Byleth appeared overwhelmed.

Two options lay before him. One, he could take the easy way out, excuse himself, and finally get that coveted sleep his body ached for. Two, he could ask Byleth what’s wrong, stay up way later than anticipated, curse himself all day tomorrow, and all just to comfort his former professor. He didn’t have the appropriate skills to do that. Marianne might, Hilda might, and Raphael _definitely_ could, so he could just pass the baton off to any of them. Except he didn’t go to any of them, he went to Linhardt, decidedly known amongst the group as the worst to offer emotional support.

So of course his mouth opened and asked, “What is it?”

Byleth lowered the map and rubbed his temples. His gaze flitted about, as if making sure no one else heard him, before admitting, “This might be the hardest fight we’ve had, and I’m not sure if we’re ready for it.”

“With all due respect, I didn’t suffer through hours of dealing with _Claude_ just to hear you doubt the numbers and plans we crunched.” His tone dipped into indignation as he folded his arms across his chest. “Considering the assistance we’ve received from the Alliance, the boosted morale from seizing the bridge, and _other_ such nonsense like Lorenz passing his certification last week, I score our chances at a solid sixty percent success. Which, I might add, is _higher_ than the bridge fight we did. You had no worries _then._ Or at least, none comparable to now.”

“That was then.” Byleth fiddled with the corner of the map. His finger hovered over the country of Adrestia, hesitant. Chatter among soldiers filled the silence between them, dwindling as night came into full swing. Lights within tents grew dark, one by one by one. 

“You’re worried about Empress Edelgard.” Byleth’s small sigh confirmed Linhardt’s suspicion. “She might not even show up.”

“I know she will. She would not miss an opportunity to quash our movement like this. And if my hunch is right, she will be killing two birds with one stone. If I were her,” he rolled up the map and tied it with twine, “I wouldn’t let the chance of felling my two greatest opponents in one day. The Empire would benefit _immensely_ from a win. They can taste it.”

“But she’s not going to win.” 

Byleth’s jaw locked in place. He stared at Linhardt, who straightened his shoulders.

“She’s not,” he emphasized. “Sure, they might think they have victory within their grasp, but we have something she doesn’t.”

Byleth’s hand gripped the hilt of the Sword of the Creator, gaze downcast. Linhardt frowned and batted his hands away, shaking his head.

“Not that.” He pressed his forefinger against the cold steel of Byleth’s armor. “_This._ You. Ever since your return, you’ve given everyone hope again. The fact that we have a chance at _all_ is because you’re here. No mathematical deductions or planning can show how powerful everyone’s faith in _you_ is. It’s what tips the scales in our favor. It’s what started the counterattack to bring peace back to Fódlan. It’s the promises of long naps without having to fear one day. _You_, not your sword, not your Crest - although I must say, _I_ find hope in studying it sometime, but that’s another story.” He allowed himself to smile. “It all boils down to you... Byleth.”

The act seemed simplistic enough - six letters, two syllables, one word - but speaking _that_ name almost made Linhardt tongue-tied. His hand fell back to his side as Byleth looked up at him, eyebrows lifted in surprise. His chest hurt, a strange throbbing sensation taking hold, and he forced himself to look away. Such an important man needed to survive, and Linhardt would make sure of it. _All_ of the Alliance would make sure of it.

His previous ruminations were dashed; if anything happened to Byleth (_again_,_ if he died again, if he fell from the cliffside and perished, if Edelgard’s axe tore through his flesh, if Petra’s sword impaled him, if Dimitri’s ghost grabbed him by the ankles and pulled him six feet under_) then surely he would feel something awful. Perhaps he was human, after all. Or perhaps his obsession with Byleth’s Crest and the desire to keep it safe made him the most inhuman of the group. Either way, the end result was the same.

They all needed him. Linhardt was no exception.

“At least, that’s what I think,” he added lamely.

Byleth said nothing for the longest time. A strange expression - pinkened ears, parted lips - took hold of him, one Linhardt never saw before. A few beats passed, and he recovered - blinking rapidly, clutching his fists, gaze shifting toward the line of tents. 

“Thank you,” he replied at last. A smile. That was a start. “But I don’t think I ever expressed permission for one of my former students to address me by name.”

“Keyword is ‘former,’” Linhardt countered, “and besides, you were _never_ properly qualified to teach, let alone be called ‘Professor.’ I doubt a rousing endorsement from Alois speaks of your true credentials.”

“I think I did well enough.”

“You cancelled class once because the fishing pond was filled with glimmering fish and you needed to buy more earthworms before the market closed. Not that _I_ minded, but I am most certain that Seteth gave you an _earful_ afterward.”

“That was, as you said, one time.”

“Need I remind you, then, of the time you forgot your lecture notes back in your room, so you instead of going back to get them, you spent the whole lecture rating each of the monastery’s cats by ‘levels of cuteness’? I still have my disagreements, by the way. The right answer was obviously Sir Purr the Third.”

“Sir Purr the Third had _nothing_ on Lady Styx. Her fur was the softest in all of Fódlan. I thought I taught you better than this.”

“Softness and cuteness are two different categories altogether. Sir Purr’s face reminds me of a teddy bear. Lady Styx had gremlin teeth and part of her ear missing.”

“That simply added to her charm,” Byleth dismissed. His lips drew into a stern line, his seriousness as intense as though in battle. Linhardt folded his arms across his chest, eyebrows lifted in skepticism. Neither spoke, and neither caved on their opinions. A fire popped nearby, and the corner of Byleth’s mouth, at long last, _twitched._

A victory for Linhardt. Byleth’s shoulders shook with muffled laughter, head ducked and the back of his hand pressed against his mouth to quiet himself. Butterflies erupted in Linhardt’s stomach, and he tried to quell them with a small huff from what he considered a win. 

“Gods,” Byleth managed between small gulps of air, “why is it that you always know how to calm me down?”

Only the gods _would_ know, because Linhardt certainly didn’t. “You certainly are not _acting_ calm.”

The laughter subsided, though a snort here and there punctured his attempts at being serious. Exhaustion’s veil lifted, if only a little bit, off of Byleth’s shoulders, confidence returning to him like an old friend. “I feel calm,” he said. He nodded once, then twice, before rising to his feet. “Ready enough. Able to face tomorrow, come what may.”

“And what do you know, convincing you only took half an hour from my sleep schedule.” He yawned unnecessarily, fingers lacing together to stretch and pop his joints. Traces of guilt flashed in Byleth’s knitted brow, and Linhardt continued, “But you are _more_ than worth it to me_._ Remember what I told you? People like you are precious to me. It’s only fair that I listen to _your_ blathering if you listen to mine.”

He stood with him. A breeze strengthened winter’s wilting chill, and he shivered. 

“After tomorrow…” Byleth started, frowned, and pressed his knuckles to his chin in thought. Linhardt waited, willing himself to stay awake for a few seconds longer. “After tomorrow, on our way home. Could you do me a favor and ‘blather’ at me?”

“Why, Professor.” Linhardt _tsked_ and gave a sly grin. “You know better than to give me an opening like that. I may be tired, but prattling about Crests will keep me _and_ you awake the whole way back. But, why not, since you asked so nicely.”

“I’m counting on you, then. And, Linhardt?”

“Mm?”

The twinkle in Byleth’s eyes put the constellations to shame.

“I rescind my previous statement. You may call me Byleth.”

***

White clouds. Blue skies. The end of the Great Tree Moon. A picture-perfect morning for painting, as Ignatz commented out of nerves.

Nobody knew what to expect. 

Claude finalized all battle preparations as best he could, implementing several of Linhardt’s propositions. Battalions lined up with their appropriate squadron leaders. Tonics dispersed, torches handed out, weapons forged, repaired, replaced. Everyone took formation long before the sun rose, waiting. As dawn broke, Imperial mages bearing pointed masks set the field aflame, claiming several lives to announce Edelgard’s arrival. She donned reds, perfect for hiding the blood she would soon spill. Dimitri’s ghost appeared shortly thereafter, vengeful and leading the charge. Bright colors meshed together into a hideous brown, tunics stained and bodies piling up.

An eagle cried. The field roared. 

Mercedes called for reinforcements first; their advance pulled ahead too far, and from behind, mounted enemy soldiers appeared to slay their injured. Ingrid heeded the call first, pulling away from Caspar and Linhardt after confirming they would be all right. They already cleared the area from Faerghus’s soldiers. 

“I thought Gulliver would be spooked by now,” Caspar said as they stalked through the trees, keeping their eyes peeled for any stragglers along Gronder’s edge. He gave a quick pat on the horse’s side. “She must’ve gotten used to it, like you.”

Linhardt remained silent. Gulliver’s exposure to battle hardened her; his reliance on her sturdiness increased tenfold since. Of course, anything _too_ sudden still made her run for the hills. 

They paused at the tree line’s edge. Arrows flew from Claude’s command, pelting the armored soldiers Edelgard directed to advance. Marianne’s pegasus took to the skies, lightning crashing with deafening booms upon clusters of mages. The central hill remained untouched, one figure surrounded by men keeping it safe. 

“Oh no,” Caspar whispered, _“Bernie.”_

From where they stood, she appeared a little taller than from when they last saw her, eyes ablaze with fear and a strong desire to live. Her arrows flew farther than Claude’s, stretching across the fields and piercing anyone who dared fall in her line of sight. She couldn’t hold her position forever, however; her men perished like flies drawing too close to a lantern. Her knees buckled from anxiety.

“Lin,” Caspar said urgently, tugging on Gulliver’s reins, “Linny, you have to get me there. I have to talk to her.”

“Don’t be a fool.” Another clap of thunder, and unmanned horses dashed toward the horizon aimlessly. “I have limited use in warp spells, and that armor weighs you down. Sending you there _alone_ is a death sentence.”

“Not sending me there is _her_ death sentence!” He pointed toward the central hill. “Our soldiers will breach it in moments, so I won’t be alone! And if they get to her _first,_ then she really won’t stand a chance. Please - for _me,_ Linhardt! I can’t just let this happen when I _know_ I can do something about it!”

And in that moment, he knew. The realization stunned him more than the sheer idiocy of Caspar’s plea. He wasn’t sure when it happened, and how it persisted over these five long years, but beneath the cold sun, it was obvious.

Caspar fell in love with her. Foolishly, blindingly so.

Linhardt ground his teeth together and lifted Thyrsus’s staff, praying to the Goddess or whomever bothered to listen that he wouldn’t regret this. _“Never_ ask me for anything ever again,” he hissed with less bite than he hoped, and Caspar _vanished._

The usual wave of nausea quickly followed and almost winded Linhardt. His free hand tightened on Gulliver’s reins, keeping himself steady as he steadied his shaky grip on Thyrsus. Caspar rematerialized close to Bernadetta, and she _shrieked, _bow pointed directly at him. What remained of her men turned their attention towards him as well, but Claude’s reinforcements were swift, disrupting their counterattack with ease. He lingered in the thicket for a moment longer, swimming vision returning to normal, and nudged Gulliver to catch up with Caspar as fast as they could.

_Please be all right. Please be okay. Please don’t shoot him square in the face, Bernadetta, please listen to him _-

Her bow lowered. Caspar’s smile widened. The Alliance’s enforcements claimed the central hill, and a new ally was gained. For a moment, Linhardt felt relief as he approached to join them. His adrenaline slowly subsided, and they were _winning,_ Edelgard’s forces thinning, Dimitri’s tunnel vision aiding them more than anticipated, and Linhardt opened his mouth to express his complaints about how Caspar made him use more effort than usual and to never worry him like that again -

\- and the whole hill erupted into a fiery spiral from a massive explosion.

Gulliver whinnied and rose on her hind legs, casting Linhardt off the saddle and tumbling into the tall grass. She fled toward the Alliance encampment as he struggled to push himself up, arms and legs bruised badly from the fall. Thyrsus fell close by, its dull glow enough to drag himself towards it, hand outstretched as his brain tried to process what just happened. Gulliver. Would she be okay? He would see her back at the camp, no doubt, if no one tried to kill her first. 

He grabbed the staff and lifted his head.

The whole central hill burned. Smoke rose in pillars, blotting out the skies black and suffocating. Fires licked at the surrounding tall grass, spreading its destruction throughout Gronder Field. A tinny and flat sound flooded his ears as a cold, creeping dread settled in his stomach.

“Cas,” he choked out, and he found himself standing to his feet faster than he ever thought possible. His eyes darted from body to body to charcoaled body (“Fire,” a medical textbook declared in his idle studies, “is the most painful way to die,”) and saw no familiar tufts of blue or purple hair. “Caspar,” he said a little louder, taking a step forward only for shooting pain to sear up his leg. He limped forward, _“Caspar!”,_ and a dark shadow stepped towards _him,_ cloaked in blacks and eyes snake-yellow -

“You should have never left her side.” 

Hubert. His sneer possessed more venom than Fódlan’s deadliest spider, and his chuckle darker than a moonless night. A simple fire spell danced in his palm as he approached calmly to put Linhardt out of his misery.

“The Empire holds no remorse for traitors.”

A whistle, and an arrow landed before Hubert’s feet. Claude - _Claude,_ the gods bless him, astride his wyvern, imperceptible rage dancing in his eyes with the fire - docked another one and aimed for Hubert’s head.

“The _Alliance,_” he retorted, “has no mercy for _bastards._”

Hubert disappeared, and the arrow aimed to claim his life struck mud instead. Claude descended, hopped off his wyvern, and hurried over to Linhardt, white magic bright in his gloved hand. The bone in Linhardt’s leg mended, a harsh _snap_ sounding more painful than it actually felt. He couldn’t remember if he said _thanks_ or not, or where Claude went, or what happened next, but his healed legs ushered him around the central hill, only to stop upon seeing _her._

Bernadetta - relatively unscathed, considering the circumstances - kneeled beside an unmoving Caspar, eyes wide and lips quivering. “Linhardt,” she croaked.

“Oh no.” He hurried over and sunk to his knees, rolling over his best friend onto his back. Caspar’s face bore the brunt of it; third-degree burns littered his cheeks, and one of his ears almost flaked off in Linhardt’s hands. “No, no.” He pressed fingers against Caspar’s throat, feeling for any trace of a pulse. “Caspar.” It beat unevenly, faint and discomforting. His disinterested persona unraveled, feelings he thought he long lost bubbling out of his eyes and spilling from his hands. “_Hey._” Now that he knew Caspar loved Bernadetta, he at least - at least! - wanted to see them together. A reunion on a battlefield was hardly romantic, didn’t Caspar know that? Probably not, the idiot. Knowing him - knowing _him,_ the lovestruck fool would have shielded her. To give up your life for honor and glory were beyond comprehension, but for love? For _love?_ For an _unrequited, unspoken, unrealized and now a possible wedding disintegrated into a tombstone, here lies Caspar, second son, and gave up his life for puppy love -_

“Wake up, damn you!” He slammed his fist onto the breastplate, and Caspar _gasped,_ breathing labored. His coughs drowned out the clash of metals and shouts in the battlefield. Linhardt exhaled hard through his nose as his magic moved from Caspar’s chest to his face. It would scar, the burnt tissue; magic could only do so much. But it was enough. Caspar was _breathing._

“You _idiot,_” Linhardt blubbered, pressing his forehead against Caspar’s chest. “You absolute _fool._ Didn’t I tell you not to make me do this again?”

_Sorry,_ Caspar mouthed. He coughed, and Bernadetta fumbled with her waterskin, bringing it up to his lips. Despite everything, he still managed a grin and a thumbs’ up. “W… welcome Bernie to the team… Lin.”

“Grand. Then your first job in the Alliance is getting you and him to the medical tent, _now._” He whistled, and Leonie’s horse reacted first, barreling towards them. “I’ll scold you later after this is all over.”

Leonie said nothing when she saw Caspar and Bernadetta’s condition, nodding in understanding as they stumbled towards her. She lifted Caspar in front of her with ease, as if he wore no armor at all. Bernadetta sat behind her - a paladin’s warhorse bore impressive stature compared to Gulliver - and winced. Leonie assessed the field around her and frowned. 

“What about you?”

“There’s no time. He needs Mercedes, and I’ll only weigh you down further. I can hold my own a little bit longer. _Go._”

She needn’t be told twice. Leonie’s figure faded in the smoke, and Linhardt turned toward the other side of the field. As long as he was here and his friend was safe, he could see if anyone else needed him. Hilda resided to his left, Lorenz ahead, and Raphael - accompanied by Ignatz - were clearing out the lingering Empire reinforcements. He spotted Edelgard, assisted by Hubert, in the distance retreating. To his right, beyond the fire, a blue cape bearing matted fur billowed in the wind. An imposing man, disheveled and maniacal, held his lance high. His target gripped his own shoulder, armor chipped, sword broken, shield cleaved in half, why was _he_ by himself, where _was everyone to support_ -

“_Byleth!”_

He hated to admit it, but he knew then how Caspar felt.

Not two in one day. Not _two._ He _refused._ Linhardt screamed in fury, and the storm in his heart materialized into a tempest that _tore_ between them, grass sliced and opponents pushed further apart. He ran, Thyrsus outstretched, and cast another, and _another,_ gale upon gale upon frenzied gale, feet sliding to a stop in front of Byleth. The ghost prince rose as the winds died, using his lance as a cane, blood spilling from a cut on his forehead. 

“_Move,_” he demanded, the hollowness in his voice almost knocking Linhardt to his knees. He remained standing, however. At first, nothing happened; Dimitri’s blood fell to the earth, blades of grass bending. And then, he _moved_ \- Linhardt’s grip tightened on his staff - only to lunge away from _them_ and towards the Empire’s fleeing forces.

Toward Edelgard.

Toward, Linhardt thought, absolute and certain death. 

“Dimitri!” Byleth tried to follow him, but Linhardt grabbed his wrist. He shook his head. 

“Edelgard is retreating,” he said, voice shaky. “The remainders of Dimitri’s army has fallen. We’ve sustained many losses to secure the field, and we’re reaching our limits in terms of stamina. Any longer and we risk too much.” _We risk losing you. I risk losing you._ His grip tightened. “Please,” he added. “Let’s go back.” _Let’s go home. _

Byleth’s eyes trailed after Dimitri, a need to do _something_ festering in his expression, but it gave way as he stumbled backward into Linhardt, broken sword falling to the ground. He knew it. Byleth charged with the first wave of infantry to help boost morale, and while it worked, a battle of this scale could exhaust any mercenary worth their salt. Sweat clung to his brow and welts dotted his chapped lips. His hands bore calluses and scrapes and broken fingernails. Compared to Caspar, Byleth’s injuries were typical, survivable - if not tiring. 

And yet, it bothered Linhardt all the same.

Leonie’s bright orange hue reappeared, horse charging towards them. Linhardt waved to attract her attention.

“Alright,” he said, swallowing hard as high noon shone upon Gronder’s gruesome carnage, “let’s go back.”

***

The Alliance won. Losses included Marianne’s pegasus, which she wept openly over as Claude gave her shoulder a heavy pat, and many soldiers from varying battalions, their bodies collected and mourned for. Reports declared Dimitri had fallen, brutally murdered by the Imperial Army. Linhardt found Gulliver, who licked his face upon seeing him as if to apologize for abandoning him. Caspar - a little rough around the edges, but definitely improving - waved at him, beaming as though he hadn’t almost died. 

(He got a light whack on top of his head for that, followed by a ten minute exhausting rant to highlight every instance of nonsense Caspar put him through.

“Geez, Linhardt.” He laughed, raspy. “I’m glad you care. Sometimes I wonder.”

“Well, don’t anymore. _Idiot._”)

But they won. 

Compared to the atmosphere yesterday, a palpable buzz of excitement swept the camp. They _won._ The Goddess Herself must have smiled upon them to pull off such a miracle - really, the odds were in their favor in the _first_ place, but Linhardt didn’t want to bother to correct any of them. The possibility of peace solidified with the win. Fódlan, perhaps, may be spared a bloodier future after all. The thought alone almost deserved a celebratory nap. He flopped back, arms outstretched, legs spread. The sun was still warm enough to doze comfortably. After today, he deserved it. His eyes closed - 

“You could have died, attacking Dimitri like that.”

\- and reopened. Byleth, bandaged together by Mercedes’s loving hand, sat down beside him on a vacant grass patch. His duties with Claude appeared to be wrapped up for now.

“As could you, but we didn’t.” He stared upward. “Do you hate me for stopping you?”

A pause. 

“Hate is a strong word,” he replied. 

“Upset, then.”

“Yes.” He nodded once, then sighed. “But I know why you did.”

_Do you?_ He wanted to ask as he turned to face Byleth. _Do you? Do you know the gut-wrenching fear that sinks its claws into your chest after seeing not just one, but two of your closest friends almost die on the same day from their own stupidity they call bravery?_

As his fleeting anger passed, the answer was obvious: of course Byleth knew. Byleth experienced so much more fighting than Linhardt ever did. Shame burned along his skin. He turned away, brow furrowed. Nearby, Hilda’s laughter and Lorenz’s posh voice mingled with the overall upbeat chatter. Talks of storming Enbarr, of finding Lady Rhea, of this that and the other fell into Linhardt’s ears as little droplets.

“Then you know why I had to,” he replied at last.

Silence. He expected Byleth to get up and walk away from the stilted conversation riddled with unnamed tension, but he didn’t. Instead, he asked,

“Did you forget?”

Byleth’s question pulled Linhardt from his reverie. “I’m sorry?”

“My request. The one we discussed last night.” 

Through the haze of battle - swords clashing, Hubert’s laughter, the smell of burning - his memories stumbled along, piecing together earlier today, last night, and the conversation they shared somewhat lost in fray. He wrinkled his nose. “To call you Professor?”

“If that was my request, you most certainly failed your certification.” He leaned back, fingertips brushing against Linhardt’s briefly. “Distract me. Blather at me.”

“Oh, yes. I forgot you had such a foolhardy moment to ask that from me.” His voice sounded calm in spite of the momentary panic from the physical contact. He tucked his hands behind his head, eyes closing. “And here I thought you would rather help take down the camp than listen to the ramblings of a scholar.”

“Mercedes said I was in no condition to do physical labor right now.” He frowned. “I _feel_ well enough to do it. I think Claude bribed her somehow to force me into relaxation.”

It sure sounded like something Claude would do. “Well, if the head nurse says so, I wouldn’t argue with her. I suppose you’re forced to just lounge around with _me_ instead.”

A pause. “I wouldn’t call it… forced.”

The sentence sounded tentative, uneven. Byleth’s face betrayed nothing, his usual calm and collected expression ever present. However, his stare focused on the ground, which was _far_ from usual. Shyness and Byleth never shared the same space, and yet - what was there to be _shy_ about? For a small, egotistical moment, Linhardt supposed Byleth found it difficult to admit he enjoyed his company, and even sought it out. It would explain their last two rendezvous. He toyed with the idea for a moment longer; Byleth oozed confidence in all matters, so his lack thereof would indicate inexperience. The only thing Linhardt could deem Byleth “inexperienced” in was expressing himself.

Then that sentence held many levels of meaning that would need to be thoroughly analyzed for proper understanding. Linhardt documented his words and locked them away to be examined another time. For now, though, he had a request to fulfill. He propped himself up upon hearing Claude’s whistle, indicating they were to move out soon.

“Very well, then. I hope your head is clear enough to understand all my findings. There’s not as much as Professor _Hanneman’s,_ of course, but I still have _quite_ a few theories on Crests. Especially yours.”

Byleth’s crooked smile returned. The sun exposed his well-hidden dimples. “Have more faith in me. I’m sure I can keep up.”

To that, Linhardt smiled back.

“Don’t I always, Byleth?”


End file.
